Don't Say a Word Page 3

  “Hi, honey,” she said softly. “My name is…Crystal.”

  The child’s eyes widened momentarily, and Crystal wondered if she’d made a mistake in visiting, if her bandaged face terrified the toddler even more. Then she realized the little girl was Hispanic, and wondered if she spoke English, so she introduced herself in Spanish.

  A second later, she realized she’d just learned something about herself. She was fluent in the language.

  “Are you a ghost?” the little girl asked.

  Crystal laughed softly, then they chatted for several minutes. The child’s name was Maria, and she’d lost her mother in a car accident the day before. Maria’s nana was supposed to come and get her the next day.

  The self-pity Crystal had wallowed in for the last few months dissipated as compassion for the toddler mushroomed inside her. She sat down beside the girl, then read and sang to her until Maria finally fell asleep.

  As Crystal made her way back to her own room, questions taunted her. Where had she learned to speak Spanish? Maybe she’d worked with children. Could she possibly have a child of her own?

  * * *

  IN THE DEN, Mr. Dubois sipped his coffee. “Damon, you will be at the upcoming Memorial Day celebration, won’t you?”

  Damon poured himself a cup of his parents’ choice rich chicory blend. “I don’t know.”

  The last thing he wanted was a commendation for honor and bravery now.

  Laughter erupted in the background, drawing him back to the moment just as the doorbell rang. His sisters and mother were discussing baby names, debating over French versus American. Jean-Paul argued that they had to focus on boys’ names since the firstborn would certainly be a son.

  The doorbell dinged again, and Damon frowned into his coffee, then gestured to his father that he would answer it.

  Who the hell was stopping by on a Friday night unannounced? Not that he should be surprised that his parents would have company. They’d made a wealth of contacts and friends through their restaurant. And they had donated both time and money to so many charities following the hurricane that they were practically local celebrities.

  Leaving his coffee cup on the table, he rammed a hand through his hair, then answered the door, hoping it was some salesman he could vent his anger on.

  Instead, Lieutenant Phelps of the NOPD stood on the stoop.

  A pair of silver-gray eyes wrought with turmoil met Damon’s.

  Not a good sign.

  Lieutenant Phelps nodded. “Special Agent Dubois.”

  A formal greeting. Also not good.

  “Lieutenant? What’s going on?”

  The man’s eyes shifted over Damon’s shoulder where Antwaun stood in the shadows of the entryway’s arched doorway that led to the hall.

  “We’re here on official business,” Lieutenant Phelps stated. “I need to speak to Antwaun.”

  Antwaun made a grunting sound in the background and Damon silently cursed.

  “Guys, why don’t we discuss this tomorrow?” Damon suggested. “It’s Friday night, and we’re having a family gathering.” As if a Friday night had ever dissuaded him from following a lead or pursuing a case.

  Behind Phelps, Antwaun’s partner, George Smith, shifted nervously, avoiding eye contact with everyone.

  “Sorry, guys. But you were both at the crime scene. We’ve ID’d the woman and have evidence that has to be answered for.” The lieutenant’s ruddy complexion colored with distress. “Antwaun, we need you to come with us for questioning.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  ANTWAUN SCOWLED. “Are you arresting me?”

  Phelps frowned. “Do we need to?”

  Damon stepped up to run interference. “Lieutenant…we’ll meet you at the station.” He turned to his parents and tried to quiet his mother’s shocked cry that seemed to still reverberate in the room. Injecting a calmness to his voice that he’d learned from his military training, he said, “Maman, Papa, don’t worry. We’ll clear this up and be back later tonight.”

  “Antwaun…what’s going on?” Daniella screeched.

  “Son.” Pierre pressed a hand to Antwaun’s shoulder. “Whatever you need…you can count on us.”

  Antwaun’s eyes turned a tortured black. “I’ll straighten it out,” he muttered. “It’s just a misunderstanding.”

  Jean-Paul appeared, a frown marring his forehead. “What in the hell is this?” He glared at the lieutenant. “This is inexcusable. If there was a problem, why didn’t you phone me first instead of barging in on our family? We would have met you at the station.”

  The lieutenant’s steady gaze flashed across the family, then settled on Jean-Paul. “The press knows about the partial body. We had to do this by the book or they’d slaughter us for protecting one of our own.”

  “You should protect your own,” Damon muttered. So why weren’t they? Damon wondered. Had Antwaun made an enemy on the force, someone who wanted to see him in trouble?

  Lieutenant Phelps narrowed his eyes at Antwaun.

  “I’m sorry, Jean-Paul,” Antwaun said in a gravelly voice. “Please go back and finish your celebration. I’ll have this issue resolved in no time.”

  “What does he need protecting from?” Jean-Paul snapped. The lieutenant opened his mouth to speak, but Jean-Paul cut him off. “Never mind. We’ll settle this at the precinct.”

  The family had gathered in the hall to see what was happening, a mass of anger and bewilderment charging the air.

  “We’ll need your gun,” Lieutenant Phelps ordered.

  Antwaun glared at him, but Jean-Paul calmly retrieved the weapon from the locked cabinet. Damon’s heart bled for his brother. He had never quite understood Antwaun and his temper, but he was blood kin, and he loved him just the same. Nothing would be more humiliating than being treated like a criminal in front of your family.

  He should know—he feared it on a daily basis.

  Still, as quiet murmurs of disbelief and support rumbled through the room from various family members, his gut tightened with worry.

  “Damon, Jean-Paul,” Stephanie said in a muffled voice. “What’s happening?”

  “We found a woman’s body, that is, part of one, today in the bayou.” Damon turned to his family while the officers escorted Antwaun to the squad car. “It may be someone Antwaun knows. I’m sure we can clear this up. But I need to go.”

  His mother pressed a hand to his back. “Yes, Damon, please go. Help your brother.”

  Jean-Paul touched Britta’s cheek. “Sweetheart—”

  “Shh. Go, Jean-Paul. Your maman is right. Take care of Antwaun.”

  His father pasted on a confident face as he curved an arm around Daniella, though anxiety lined his mouth. Catherine and Stephanie, encircled their parents like protective watchdogs. Their father had been injured during the last big hurricane, and they all worried about his health now, especially his heart.

  His sisters agreed to stay with their parents while Damon and Jean-Paul rushed out. As soon as they climbed in the sedan, Jean-Paul barked, “How bad is it, Damon?”

  Damon clenched his jaw. “I don’t know. Like I said earlier, we found part of a body. A woman’s hand.” He explained about the ring and Antwaun’s connection to Kendra Yates, and they both speculated over how the police had identified her so quickly.

  Jean-Paul muttered something about Antwaun always finding trouble, then turned to stare out the window, and Damon stepped on the gas, his anxiety rising with every passing second. He wanted to hear exactly what Antwaun had to say.

  His brother had lied to him before. Antwaun knew more than he’d admitted about this woman, Kendra. And Damon intended to find out what Antwaun was keeping from him and why the police, his own fellow officers, suspected he might be a murderer.

  * * *

  A PRESS MOB AWAITED ANTWAUN at the police station, turning his steel nerves to mush. How the hell had they identified this victim and discovered his involvement with her so quickly? Cameras flashed, reporters shoved micro
phones toward his face, firing questions at him that blurred in a giant fog.

  “Officer Dubois, were you the last person to see Kendra Yates alive?”

  “Is it true that she was mauled by the gators, that only her hand was found?”

  “Do you know who left her to the gators?”

  “Is there another serial killer in New Orleans?”

  “Did you kill her, Officer Dubois?”

  Antwaun barely resisted shooting daggers at the reporters with his eyes and clamped his mouth shut, knowing anything he said might be misconstrued. Why the fuck was the press so interested in this story? Who had leaked the details of the crime scene to them?

  His throat clogged with emotions at the realization that Kendra was dead. Mon coeur he had called her. She’d asked about the French Cajun term and he’d taken her hand and placed it over his chest. “My heart,” he’d said, letting her know it belonged to her.

  She had been so young, so pretty, her body lithe and elegant like a dancer’s. Her hands had been like magic, those slender fingers always gliding over him, so titillating and ready to please. And that tongue—she was sharp witted and quick with words, yet in bed she’d used that mile-long tongue to bathe him in ecstasy. Hell, she’d been a pussycat, who’d lapped him up like a bowl of cream. No wonder he’d fallen for her.

  His partner ushered him to the side door while the lieutenant fended off questions with a statement about releasing information as soon as it became available.

  Jean-Paul and Damon arrived and wove through the crowd. One of the reporters snagged Jean-Paul by the shirtsleeve, forcing him to stop. Jean-Paul curled his hand into a fist, and Antwaun waited with bated breath, half hoping his older brother would lose his cool just once and pound the guy’s mouth shut.

  “Detective Dubois?” the catty reporter snarled at Jean-Paul. “We know how the cops think. They protect their own. How can the public get justice in this case?”

  Jean-Paul stabbed him with a knifelike glare, but kept his fist clenched by his side. “We are here to see that justice is served.”

  “How is that possible? Antwaun Dubois is not only surrounded by his friendly police force, but you and your brother, a federal agent, are here to defend him.”

  In a barely controlled move, Jean-Paul jerked the man by the tie, knotting it into his fist until the pissant coughed to get air. “My brother is here to help his fellow officers find this woman’s murderer. Now, get out of the way.”

  Antwaun’s emotions boomeranged between gratitude to have his brothers on his side, and humiliation that they had to be. His partner pushed him inside the door, and Antwaun glared at a couple of rookies who watched him with lecherous expressions as if they were ready to string him up and hang him.

  Clenching his jaw, he braced himself to face being seated on the other side of the table in the interrogation room. He knew how the cops would play him; he’d acted the role of bad cop a hundred times himself, although truth be told, he didn’t have to act.

  At the same time, his mind spun with questions, theories, and…lies.

  Had he been the last person to see Kendra alive?

  “All right, Dubois.” Lieutenant Phelps spread photos of the decimated hand across the scarred wooden table. “Do you recognize this woman?”

  Antwaun forced himself to remain calm. He hadn’t yet requested legal representation, but he would if needed. For now, he schooled his reactions. He didn’t want to antagonize his superior, and calling in his union rep or a lawyer would do that. So would being a smart-ass. He’d had that lesson pounded into him in the military more times than he could count.

  “It’s a hand, Lieutenant. A very decomposed one at that,” he said quietly. “I can’t say with any certainty that I know who it belonged to, not without forensic reports.” He paused, leaned back in his chair. Knew his brothers were watching from the other side of the two-way glass. If ever he’d wanted to impress them by being cool and professional, it was now.

  But sweat rolled down his back, soaking his shirt and making it stick to the cheap vinyl chair. A droplet tickled his scalp, slowly making its way down his crown. The next thing he knew it would be trickling down into his eye. He’d wipe it, the cops would see that he was nervous, then they’d pounce like vultures hunting prey. Even aware of the goddamn drill, he still couldn’t stop the flow of nervous energy seeping through his veins.

  “Who do you think this woman is? And do you have proof?” Antwaun asked.

  “We checked fingerprints. Her name is Kendra Yates,” Lieutenant Phelps said with no inflection in his voice. “We also know that you and she dated. That the ring on the finger of the woman’s hand we found was bought by you.”

  Antwaun schooled his reaction. They’d done their homework, and very quickly. “So. I haven’t seen her in months.”

  “You were working undercover at the time?”

  He nodded. “I thought she might have a connection to Karl Swafford.”

  “And what had you discovered about him?”

  This was all in his report, but again, he wrestled his anger under control. He had to go through the motions. “Since Katrina, Karl Swafford has spent millions of dollars rebuilding the casinos. He was being investigated for possible connections to the mob, embezzlement, money laundering and murder.”

  “You suspected Miss Yates was involved with him?”

  “Yes.”

  “What made you suspect they had a relationship?”

  Antwaun hesitated. Kendra had no idea how he’d first seen her. What he’d thought. “I was doing surveillance on Swafford. I saw her in bed with the man.” In fact, he’d watched her perform a very seductive strip show for the bastard. Had seen her give Swafford a blow job that had made Antwaun want her mouth wrapped around him. Then he’d watched Swafford run his fingers over her naked body, throw her down on the bed and bang her with such force that Antwaun had nearly ground his molars down to nubs with envy…and disgust.

  When Swafford had crawled off her, he’d noticed the tears in Kendra’s eyes. He’d never quite understood them, but that one glimpse of her vulnerability had twisted at heartstrings he hadn’t even known he possessed.

  But he was all about the job, and like a good cop, he’d cozied up to her to use her.

  Then he’d been the recipient of that mouth, and he’d fallen in love.

  No, lust. He might have mistaken the two a couple of times, but never again.

  “You began seeing Miss Yates, hoping she’d squeal on Swafford?”

  He nodded. He’d thought he could seduce her into talking. “But it didn’t pan out. Turns out she was just a dancer who hooked up with him one night.”

  The lieutenant exchanged a querulous look with the female cop, and Antwaun knew he was cooked. Trouble was, he wasn’t sure how. What did they have on him? On Kendra?

  Sure, maybe he’d been an idiot. Gotten tangled up with a suspect. A woman who had slept with a man he’d been investigating for illegal activities.

  And when she’d gone missing, he’d been curious, even suspicious at first. But reporting her missing would have blown his cover. And he’d wanted to put the guy away. Especially if he’d killed Kendra…

  “Then what happened?” the lieutenant ordered in a brittle tone.

  Antwaun chewed the inside of his cheek, then explained his reasoning. “She admitted that Swafford didn’t want to end things with her.” A river of tears had fallen afterward that had wrenched his heart. She’d claimed he’d blackmailed her into sex, trapped her into being with him, and that she wanted out. Shaking with rage toward Swafford, and tenderness toward her, Antwaun had drawn her into his arms. He’d have promised her anything to alleviate her pain and stop her cries. “Then she disappeared. I figured she’d left town to escape the bastard.”

  “You reported her missing?”

  Antwaun shifted. “Not exactly. I couldn’t let anyone know our connection. I asked around, but didn’t find anything.”

  “You know I want to believe
you.” The lieutenant tilted his head sideways, his deep-set gray eyes narrowed to slits. “Kendra Yates didn’t connect with Swafford by accident.”

  Antwaun frowned. The ax was about to drop.

  “Neither did she meet you by coincidence either.”

  Anger burned a path down his belly as reality interceded. “She made me for a cop?”

  The lieutenant offered a mirthless laugh. “Dammit, Antwaun. She didn’t just make you for a cop. She was a reporter working undercover. She came onto you for information.”

  Antwaun gritted his teeth. “The jolie fille was a reporter?”

  “Yes, the pretty lady was a reporter.” The lieutenant leaned forward, accusations brimming in his condemning eyes. “And guess what her story was about?”

  Antwaun shrugged, but his mind was spinning. Now he understood why the press had pounced so quickly. “Swafford’s casinos, I suppose. It was common knowledge that he donated millions of dollars to rebuild them. She probably figured the same as we did, that he was crooked.” He moved to the edge of his seat. “Don’t you see? He probably found out who she was and killed her.”

  Lieutenant Phelps grunted. “What do you know about Swafford’s operations?”

  That he was linked to illegal activities. “I hadn’t found anything definitive yet. The man is a master at hiding his actions and his money.” He cleared his throat. “Then he disappeared. I figured it was to cover his ass, that he’d eventually resurface again.”

  “You didn’t think that he might be dead?”

  “Sure, the thought occurred to me. In fact, I was looking into the angle that one of his minions might have gotten selfish, wanted a bigger piece of the Swafford pie and offed him.”

  Another possibility needled him. The fact that Swafford and Kendra might have run off together. That still could have happened, then the man discovered who she was and killed her. Swafford could have also faked his death and disappeared so he wouldn’t get caught. “Did Kendra have proof of his corruption?”

  The lieutenant watched him with hooded eyes. “Not that we know of. But she had a theory.”